Memory
by hellyeahcameronmitchell
Summary: There is always a girl who is different. She could be quiet, misunderstood-or just plain different.   I was always one of those girls.


Pain. It was bright, it was blinding, and it was there. Consuming my mind, my body, my existence, relentless and unyielding.

And he was there. I don't know why he was there, but he was. He stood back and he watched, so I wasn't left to suffer alone.

It didn't change a thing. He was there, and I was there.

And life went on.

The story begins with a girl, a bare white room, and a piece of torn cloth.

She sits in the far corner of the white room, on the floor, her head between her knees. Dressed in all white, curled up next to the white padded walls, alone and without ease.

She isn't left alone for long—they wouldn't take the risk. Soon enough, a man in a white lab coat walks in, through a door next to a large glass window. Similar men in lab coats watch from the window. The man locks the door behind him before taking a few steps in the girl's direction.

"Do you remember?" His voice is gentle, soothing, but imploring.

The girl doesn't lift her head. "No," she says flatly. It's clear she isn't going to say any more.

The man sighs. "If you don't cooperate, we'll be forced to intervene," he says, his tone calm, but an obvious warning.

A low, dry chuckle escapes her throat. "You already have," she says. She lifts her head to face him.

Like all his colleagues before him, the man is faced with shocking sea-green eyes, the color so pure and deep that if you looked closely enough, you felt as if you would fall right in. They stare at him in defiance, so flat and hard that he has to take a step back toward the door.

"I think you should leave," she says, her voice hard, making it clear that it isn't a suggestion.

He runs back to the door, struggling to unlock it and get inside quickly. The girl smiles slightly as he barges inside, quick to lock it again.

She knows what comes next. Tilting her head back and shutting her eyes, she is the picture of tranquility. Then the pain hits her, and with it a flood of memories and darkness.

I run. It is raining. The ground is muddy and slick beneath my feet, and I constantly slip. I've only fallen once so far, and was severely punished for my mistake.

I don't know where Damian is on the track; I can't see past the thick sheets of rain shrouding me. I can only hope he's better off than me, farther and doing well.

As I approach the next hurdle, I hastily swipe my dripping hair away from my face. Out of the dark, the two-foot-high barricade appears, glowing an off-white color with sickly orange stripes. But I am ready for it.

I jump with my right foot forward, my shin grazing the wet plastic as I soar. And then I'm over, with only a slight stumble to show for my effort, and my legs don't let me stop.

This trial is taking a lot longer than the last. It should be ending soon. But the motes keep ticking, sending small electric shocks through my body to keep me running. When the trial is over, they'll cease, and then I'll be gassed so they can bring me back inside for the next trial.

I chuckle as I think of the word—'motes' is Damian's term for our motivational shocks.

As I think of it, the motes stutter and cut off abruptly. They had said our brain activity could interfere with the tests if we thought too much. Now I'll likely be forced to rerun this trial.

I stumble with the sudden change in rhythm, and fall face-first in the mud. The motes, slowly returning to my system, race with the intention to get me back on my feet. They change suddenly into lecks—Damian-speak for electric punishment shocks.

After a moment of letting me endure the pain, I can hear the gases spray out around me. I shut my eyes and welcome the darkness.

Blinding light greets the girl in wakefulness—a flashlight, its beam shining in her wide green eyes. She blinks rapidly to let them know she's still alive. Their voices reach her soon.

"What is your name?"

She frowns, racking her brain for the answer. The memories always cost her something, a memory from the present. A memory for a memory. The harder it is to access those memories, the more recent are the memories that are lost. This one cost her name.

When she can't find it, she shakes her head painfully. Speech would be too painful at this point.

A leck courses through her, reminding her of the memory she worked so hard to dredge up. She cringes at the sudden shock of pain.

"What is your name?" the voice repeats insistently.

She forces her mouth open to try and communicate. Her words are high-pitched whispers, her voice cracking on every other word. "I don't remember."

The shocks are worse now, sending blinding pain bouncing through her skull. She doubles over, clutching her head and screaming with pain. "I don't know!" she screeches helplessly.

"Try to remember!" a different voice yells angrily.

The first voice sighs. "Charlie, leave her be," he says quietly. "Let's just get this over with, get on to the next memory retrieval."

Charlie seems to agree, because there isn't any more pain or yelling. The girl finally risks opening her eyes again, slowly and with her body curled up protectively. She waits as the nicer man flips through some papers.

"Subject A177," he reads. "Otherwise known as Ivory Jean Hawthorne."

The girl coughs, the memory of the name returning to her. Her name. "Ivy," she breathes hoarsely.

The man reading from the paper looks down at her, confused. "Pardon?" he asks, watching her.

She glances up at him warily. "My name is Ivy," she repeats. She tries to look into his eyes and make him understand, but he flinches away from her gaze. She sighs inwardly, but she's used to this kind of treatment. Like she's a freak.

"Ivy, then," the kinder voice says quietly. Her vision still isn't as clear as it could be, but it seems as if he is writing it down on his paper.

"James!" Charlie reprimands. "What are you doing? Subjects don't get names. You know the rules!"

James frowns, and automatically begins erasing whatever he had previously written. "Right. Sorry."

Ivy frowns. What rules could possibly prohibit the use of a name? She doesn't question the part about being a subject, because that's what she is. She knows this. She accepts it.

Charlie glances at her again; curled up on a platform three feet above the ground, watching them warily, she looks like a frightened animal. A wild animal, trapped in a cage, frightened and tortured. They both know who is in charge.

"Time to go back under," Charlie says.

Ivy shuts her eyes but does not relax her position. She knows the pain will return when she is sent back to the darkness, to the memories.

There's always a girl who is different. She could be quiet, or misunderstood—or just plain different.

I was always one of those girls.

I am seven years old, and I am different.

Kids don't like me; parents tend to avoid me. I have no friends. I am not invited to birthday parties or sleepovers. Nobody likes me.

But I am special. I know I am.

I can talk to animals. They do what I ask them to. Once I had a flock of birds attack Janie Nelson. I can also open doors without a key. I just picture the lock opening, the door handle turning and letting me inside. And it just happens.

Mom and Dad do not know I can do this. They think I'm a freak, just like everyone else. But they don't know I'm special. Shouldn't they? Shouldn't they see inside me, look into my eyes and know that I am not a freak?

Everyone is afraid of my eyes. Two years ago at church, Father James said I had the eyes of the Devil. That was the last time we went to church.

My eyes are not the Devil's. They are mine. Why would he say that?

Mommy says there is nothing wrong with my eyes, that they are perfect just the way they are. But I know she is lying. Most people smile when they lie. Mom smiles all the time, except when she is lying. She doesn't smile at me as she says this. She doesn't smile at me at all anymore, and neither does Dad.

But it doesn't matter. I know I am special.

I am special, and they are not.

They are just jealous.

That's what Haiden says, anyway.

Ivy opens her eyes again. Tears are dripping down her cheeks, and she stares straight up at the ceiling. The memory of her eyes reminds her not to look at anyone.

They are not jealous. They are repulsed, frightened, sympathetic, even. But they are not jealous.

"What is your name?" James asks again, even though the chance of her losing the same memory twice in a row is unlikely.

"Ivory Jean Hawthorne," she says dully. "But I don't deserve a name. I am subject A177."

Silence.

James clears his throat awkwardly, obviously eager to move on to the next question. "What is your name?"

A blank. Ivy comes up to a mental block, and cannot think past it.

"I don't remember," she says, preparing herself for a shock.

But nothing comes.

She sits up slightly and looks around the room. Charlie has left, replaced by a woman with brown hair who looks to be in her forties. She does not meet Ivy's eyes. James nods to himself—James, who Ivy now notices has dark brown hair and looks older than the woman. _He even has a kind face_, Ivy notices dazedly.

James looks up, and Ivy flattens herself on the platform and resumes staring at the ceiling. She can see out of the corner of her eye that he is smiling to himself.

"Ivory Jean Hawthorne," he reads from the paper. "Age seventeen."

Ivy can't help but frown at the ceiling. "Only seventeen?" she asks, disappointed. She had expected to be older. She certainly feels older. The memories age her mentally. She feels a thousand years old.

James chuckles under his breath. "Yes, only seventeen."

The woman smiles a bit, but it is obvious she is uncomfortable here. Ivy wonders why James is so comfortable.

"Time for the next memory retrieval," the woman says abruptly.

James glances at her sharply, but Ivy knows he cannot argue. This woman may be new, but she is right. James is getting distracted from his job.

As Ivy closes her eyes again, she wonders briefly how these people plan on getting the memories from her. They have only had her bring them back to the surface. They need them. How will they get them?

She feels as if she should know this. Maybe she has forgotten more than just her age. Maybe James asked the wrong questions.

But the thought is lost with the rush of color and fractured images that floods the insides of her eyelids.

I have never been afraid of the dark.

Normal things that scare other kids my age do not scare me.

I am ten years old now, and I am hiding.

It is my favorite hiding place, a secret room hidden under the staircase. No one has found me here. Not even Haiden seems to know where I am, and he knows everything. I wait for him to give up, crouched beneath a tiny shelf in the tinier room.

I feel a prickling sensation on my arm, and I look down to see a delicate black spider crawling up. My pale skin glows in the dim light shining into the darkness. I watch the spider with detached interest. It does not bother me the way it might bother other children. Another way in which I am different.

"Still amused by black widows, I see," a smirking voice whispers in my ear.

I jump in surprise, and the spider bites me. I turn to see Haiden's devilish smile, his eyes gleaming like a cat's. I did not know there was room for two people in this small room, but Haiden always surprises me.

I smile wryly as I look down at my arm, where the spider's bite is forming a small bump. "That was not a black widow," I retort, though I look at my arm doubtfully.

He chuckles, and the sound of it is like music. "If you say so," he says playfully.

Haiden loves to make fun of me, but sometimes I wonder if there is not truth in his words. Haiden never tells a lie. He is strange that way.

The door suddenly flies open, and I turn around in surprise. My mother stares at a spot above my eyes, her hands on her hips.

"What are you doing in here?" she asks, nearly yelling. "You could have suffocated!"

"I didn't think you knew about my hiding place," I say, almost to myself.

She sighs exasperatedly. "Of course I know," she says. "It's a broom cupboard. It's not like it's invisible!"

She sighs again and rubs her forehead, as if looking at me is painful. "Come out of there," she says finally, grabbing my wrist and pulling me to my feet.

I twist in her grip and glance over my shoulder. Haiden is gone. And I was right; there is not room for two people.

Haiden is magical that way.

The lab is gone when Ivy wakes. James, the platform, the woman—everything is gone. She is in a bed, a bed with off-white linen sheets and a hard, scratchy pillow.

She bolts upright, looking around her in anxiety. "Where am I?" she yells, knowing someone will answer.

When you're being monitored this closely, someone always answers.

She sighs in frustration and pushes herself out of bed, walking around the room. There are three walls, one of which the bed is pushed up against. The fourth wall has been replaced by a floor-to-ceiling royal blue curtain.


End file.
